The Darkest Hour
by nightingales-rose
Summary: On a night during Erik's time in Persia, he is forced to face the darkness in his own heart.  Kay-based


_Here is a short one-shot based on Susan Kay's _Phantom. _I felt that this part of the story had a very strong emotional impact, and I just wanted to expand on it a little . . ._

**The Darkest Hour**

The sun was just beginning to set in the deserts a few hours north of Kashan. The cool January winds whipped at Erik's face as he urged his horse to quicken its pace, his black cloak billowing out behind him, his thin fingers entwined in the horse's black mane.

_A cage . . . A cage is where you belong and where I would most gladly see you confined, like the hideous beast that you are . . ._

The words of the grand vazir echoed in Erik's mind, causing the blood to boil in his veins. What did Mirza Taqui Khan know of a cage? What did he know of the sting of the lash, the jeering faces that could haunt dreams for a lifetime, of the scars that crisscrossed his back? It would be impossible for him to fathom the humiliation of being exhibited before a crowd, a source of exciting horror for the women, of scorn and laughter for the men . . .

No, the grand vazir knew nothing of true misery. He had been raised as a member of the royal family from his birth, and was accustomed to all the comforts that such a heritage entailed. He had a beautiful wife, the Shah's own sister in fact, and two perfect children who would carry on the family name. His reforms for Persia had brought him much notoriety, and helped him gain a number of loyal followers.

But he had also gained his fair share of enemies, much to Erik's advantage. And his days of royalty and happiness were about to come to an end.

Erik had already used his influence in the royal court to expel the grand vazir to Kashan two months previously, but this had brought him only a small and temporary pleasure. What was the pain in exile when it was to the beautiful palace of Fin, with its lovely gardens and marble fountains? Where was the loss if the grand vazir still had his loyal family by his side? The thought that he had not even deprived this man of the love and beauty that he himself had never had filled Erik with an indescribable rage. He hated Khan. He hated that this man was so honest, so respected and loved, and that no one would fault him for identifying Erik as a hideous beast suitable only for a cage; because, in everyone's eyes, he was correct.

Erik knew he could never have the love, respect, and loyalty that the grand vazir did. But he could have one thing.

Revenge.

This was the one thought on his mind as he raced through the desert sands, the one goal that he yearned for. And it was soon to be fulfilled. Even as he thought of it, a harem lady would be informing the former grand vazir of his honorable retirement, and Khan would be preparing himself to be purified in the bathing chambers in anticipation of the receipt of the Coat of Honor. But there he would meet his death; the Shah's assassins were to give him the honor of choosing his method of execution, but were ordered not to end his life until Erik arrived; he himself would have that satisfaction.

The eerie, fading light of dusk enveloped the shifting sands as the hooves of Erik's horse pounded on the ground, bringing the two of them closer to the final goal. Erik knew that time was running short, and that he would need to travel quickly if everything was to proceed according to plan. Yet he could not stop himself from slowing to a halt when he saw a small black form scurry across the sand only a few feet from him, stirred from its perch on a nearby rock, where it was absorbing the last few rays of light left in the day. As agile as cat, Erik leapt down from his horse and began to dig through one of his travelling bags, keeping a watchful eye on the creature not two feet away from him. Careful not to make too much noise, he pulled out a small enameled casket, and then knelt down beside the small black shape.

It was a scorpion. Its stinger arched gracefully over its back, poised to strike. Erik watched it without fear; he admired its taut alertfulness, its subtle intimidation.

As a child, Erik had felt a strange sense of comradeship with all unlovely, persecuted creatures, and spiders in particular. He used to imagine himself as a spider, hidden away in a dark corner, surrounded and protected by a shimmering network of webs. Here, in his own little world, he could be content. He wouldn't have to fear the shriek of a frightened woman, followed by a quick _smack _of a broom, no matter how ugly or frightening he may be to look upon. He could hide himself away, perhaps behind a cupboard or under a dresser in an attic, and spend his days in solitude, building the most beautiful and intricate webs of all his species . . .

But now, as Erik admired the scorpion, he wondered why it had been the spider that he had always imagined before, rather than this fascinating creature. The scorpion, like the spider, was appalling to look upon, and a source of fear and revulsion amongst the human race. However, it would not have to hide itself away in a dark corner; it would not have to content itself with only its own web for amusement. For it had a means of protection. No one would attempt to crush it, no one would injure it out of their fear and loathing. The scorpion had its sting, and no one would dare to injure something that caused them to fear for their lives . . .

With a swift yet gentle flick of his hand, Erik scooped the scorpion into the velvet-lined casket and continued on his way.

oooooooooooo

The sun's rays had not yet appeared on the horizon as Erik rushed from the bathing chambers, fleeing from a rage that, if acted upon, would surely get him killed.

Nothing had gone according to plan. The Shah's assassins – those ignorant fools! – had misjudged the grand vazir's strength. Erik had arrived to see them, their eyes glittering with bloodlust, surrounding a bath full of blood. There the body of the grand vazir lay, still and lifeless. Erik had let out a furious cry, his fists tightening with rage. How dare they! He had given clear orders that _he _would be the one to kill his hated enemy, _he _would be the one to end the wretch's life. He was to have made the man regret his hateful words, his taunts and jeers, with every cut he made . . .

But all his scheming, his travelling, had been for naught. He would never have his revenge now. The man was dead, but it was not enough.

Erik longed to kill the assassins who had dared defy his orders, but he knew that he was far outnumbered. Instead, blinded with fury, he stumbled out into the palace's garden, pacing aimlessly amongst the carefully trimmed cypress trees and gurgling fountains until his anger cooled enough to allow him to return to his horse and begin his journey back to Tehran.

They did not see each other until it was too late. The princess, the beautiful wife of the grand vazir, was dashing through the gardens, alarmed by the prolonged absence of her husband. Her little bare feet glided over the fresh grass, her dark hair and pale robes streaming behind her in the wind. In the darkness of the early morning, she did not see Erik until she collided with him. He stumbled backwards, grasping at her shoulders to keep his balance.

"Sir, where –," the princess began, but the words died on her tongue upon seeing the black mask covering Erik's face. In an instant, her expression changed from one of worry to one of wordless terror.

"Oh Allah, no, no!" she gasped, flinging a hand over her mouth. She stumbled back blindly, leaning against the garden wall. At the sight of the Khanum's "Angel of Death," she knew what fate had befallen her husband.

"No . . ." she moaned softly, tears beginning to run down her face. Then, suddenly, her expression changed into one of rage. Flinging herself at the masked executioner, she pummeled her little fists against his chest, sobbing and screaming, crazed with grief.

Erik's head swam with visions, little glimpses of the past that danced in his mind like moths fluttering before a flame. The frightened cries of another young girl, her eyes wide with terror; a crumbling balustrade; a grayish ooze upon the courtyard stones . . .

"Stop, stop!" Erik cried, as the princess gave into exhaustion and fell, weeping uncontrollably at his feet. But she could not stop. Her cries echoed throughout the garden courtyard, in Erik's head, until it seemed to him that a thousand voices were sobbing , screaming, crying in this mind . . .

_I want you to take off the mask, do you hear me, Erik? I want you to take it off _right now!

_I want to _see . . .

The princess had not seen beneath his mask. She had not seen the distortion of his face.

But she had seen the distortion of his heart.

It was not until she rose onto her feet and, comprehending the danger she was in, fled into the darkness, that Erik dropped to his knees and wept. Her eyes had been a mirror that was worse than any mirror he had been forced to peer into as a child . . .

A mirror that showed him what his bitterness had caused him to become.


End file.
